To Rule the World
by Kylin MacNeill
Summary: A young girl with a horrific past shows the Heralds that not all is as well in Valdemar as they would hope. Rated for sexual content and adult situations. Advanced warning: FIRST FEW CHAPTERS WILL BE DARK


This is the story that I have decided to create in lew of re-reading the Valdemar series by Mercedes Lackey. The following has been rated Mature for sexuality and potential languages. Please R & R I promise that though it's going to be a lot different than my Rebel Rain story, it will be kick-ass…. See! A swear word already! I do not disappoint!

--

It was hot in the room, the straw mattress dusty, the slight wood frame loose as he loomed over her. He hadn't even bothered to remove her gown and the skirt lay bunched at her waist, his hips slapping lewdly between hers. She kept her face turned to the side, her pale green eyes focused on the wall opposite of the bed. Sweat poured over her skin, her dark hair plastered to her ivory skin. She lay limp beneath him, ignoring the creaks of the bed, the feel of his hands over her bared breasts, the way his nails dug into her flesh, the scent of his breath as his tongue dragged against her cheek, the sound of his slurred speech as he whispered into her ear. "Good girl…so pretty…." She let her eyes close slowly, drowning out his presence. She didn't have a lot of memories, and scarce few of them were good, but one was a special place for her. She let herself drift back there and she breathed a soft sigh of relief. The man mistook it for pleasure. "Pretty girl likes this, doesn't she?" he whispered through a dark chuckle. She didn't answer him.

Kerigan wasn't sure how long she lay there alone after he'd finished. They never stayed in the room. There was never any need. She blinked carefully, the moonlight playing through the open window, the curtains limp from lack of breeze. She sat up, wincing at her muscles' protest. Another customer that was too rough for the normal girls. That's why she got them. Too many of the brothels here didn't care to use children, and those that specifically asked for children didn't mind that they were more fragile. She slipped off the bed, leaving her tattered robe on the small makeshift table and stood in the moonlight, her face raised to the pale orb. Another night she would spend in this place. Another night where dreams wouldn't save her.

The smoky mirror at the corner of the room caught her reflection and Kerigan turned to see what harsh truth it would offer this night. Her tousled curls fell to the small of her back, her frame bone-thin. She was not a very tall girl, but it was the gangliness of adolescence that seemed to draw the men to her service. That and her eyes. Kerigan had lost track of how many men commented on her eyes or the color of her hair. A thin, dark line, made black by the moonlight, ran down the inside of her thigh, and the fourteen-year-old grimaced. She hadn't realized he'd been that rough. Holding back a sigh, she reached for a loose handkerchief, wiping it away carefully. She'd feel it more by dusk. After the blood had been cleaned away, she poured a bit of water into the chipped bowl on the bureau and washed away the rest 

of the evidence. Only then did she find a thin shift to slip on over the still darkening bruises. She crawled back into the straw mattress and sank silently into oblivion.

The sunlight beat against the room, the air stifled by the cooking rays. Kerigan groaned softly, trying to turn her face away. Even that slight movement brought a sharp twinge to her loins, and she winced. If she wasn't up soon, Madame would come calling. She certainly didn't want that. Hastening out of bed, the girl cleaned herself up as much as she could. Her hair was piled into a mound of curls that tumbled over one alabaster shoulder from the nape of her neck. The dress came next, a revealing thing that didn't leave much to the imagination. It ducked low to show the swells of her budding breasts and clung tight to accent her developing curls. Kerigan sat down to draw her boots on next, just as the door opened. She looked up in time for a sharp slap.

The man loomed over her, reeking of old ale and unwashed clothing. Her eyes widened, one hand touching the sudden explosion of flushing on her cheek. His burly shoulders tensed and he took another step closer. "Where is it?" he snarled.

"Where is what?"

He answered with another harsh backhanding, sending her sprawling across the bed. "I was with you last night, whore! What did you do with my coin!?"

"I didn't—"

"Oh, you didn't, did you?!" He spat, pushing her down firmly. "You took it while I slept."

"No!"

"Do NOT speak to me, whore!" His hands found the shoulders of her thin dress and pulled, ripping the fabric with ease. She did her best to cover herself, fear bringing soft sobs to the surface. "Don't even try that trick. You liked it well enough last night…. You stole my coin, wench. I might as well have gotten my money's worth."

He waited no time pushing aside his own leggings and her skirt, shoving into her roughly. Kerigan cried out, arching against him as she screamed for help. He slapped her again. Once, twice, again and again in time with his thrusts until she fell limp beneath him again. She'd been used before. It was what she was, but this was too much. It HURT! More than anything she had felt, more even than her first. He pulled away as he finished and he left the room, not even bothering to say anything. She rolled to her side, sobbing softly as she pulled her legs to her chest.

"None of that, girl." Madame's voice reached her ears and she flinched without thinking. "I told you from the start that I do not condone theft. It's bad for business."

Kerigan struggled to sit up, holding the tattered remains of her dress to her, her green eyes wide with sudden fear. "Madame, please… I didn't—"

The stern woman glared. "I detest lying just as much as theft, girl. There is no place for the likes of you here." She strode into the room, grabbing her roughly by the arm and yanking her to her feet. "Scum like you belongs on the street, and that's just where you'll go."

"No! No, Madame, I didn't steal from him! I swear—" It did no good. She was shoved out the door, and it closed firmly behind her. Kerigan stared at the closed door, tears streaking through the dirt of her cheeks. If her life could have gotten worse, there was no lower low than now. This was her rock bottom. She clung to the dress, aware of eyes on her now, and slowly, she turned. The men stared at her, grinning suggestively. She sniffed softly, wiping her nose before she broke into a fast walk. She had to get out of town. At least this part of town.

The road was dark, the moon absent, and she stumbled repeatedly. How long had it been since she had left the mining town? A week? A month? She couldn't recall. It had rained twice, she knew, and the nights were far colder. Kerigan tugged the tattered cloak tighter around her as her toe caught the rock. She grunted, falling face first as the wind picked up. Another storm. She wouldn't find a shelter in time. Not tonight. Gritting her teeth and ignoring the twisting in her gut, she lurched back to her feet. She had to keep going. The rain started to fall in heavy drops, carried by the gusts of wind. The temperature continued to drop. She shivered, her toes and fingers growing numb. It spread, filling her with an empty void, but there was warmth as well, a warmth that seemed to come from that twisting. But with the warmth came a swift weakening, a draining of energy, and she stumbled again. This was it. This was the 

last of her strength. This was how it was to end. She lay in the road, too cold to even tremble, her eyes closed.

Something was nudging her. Not another customer. She couldn't take another customer tonight. She whimpered, too tired to even move, and she felt the warmth push at her shoulder again. This time, the urgent whicker met her. She opened her eyes, and they met with a white horse. Someone had lost their horse. For some reason, that struck her as terribly funny. If she'd had the energy, she would have laughed. Some lord was wandering through the storm just as she was.

The horse nudged her again, snorting firmly, and she found herself moving. Her gaze found blue eyes, and she stopped, her own green eyes widening with wonder. The horse—no, not horse…. She wasn't sure what it was, but it was no horse. It held her gaze, urging her, and she finally felt the words push through into her mind. _:Chosen, you have to get up. Please! You're dying, and I can't help you….:_ Chosen. She was Chosen. What did that mean? Her numb hands found the silken mane, and she whimpered again, somehow managing to haul herself onto the mare's back. Mare? Was it a mare? Yes, a mare. A friend. She felt the warmth meet her again, buffeting against the storm, a rock against the nightmare she was facing. She rested her face against the white neck and she felt them moving. Then, nothing.

--

Firesong heard the call before the pounding on his door. He started awake, blinking in confusion. Who would be calling at this time of night? Especially in a storm such as this? He stumbled to his feet, opening the door to his _salle_. "Darkwind? What—"

"No time. A Companion Chose this night, and the girl is dying."

That was enough to grab his attention. "Why do you need me? Wouldn't a Healer—"

He shook his head. "Firesong, I don't know the story, but the Healers are asking for you. They need help to save her."

He grabbed his cloak and followed after his fellow Hawkbrother. It was a long trek to the Healer's Collegium. By the time they reached it, there was a near panic centering at one room. A green-clad man breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Thank the Light…. Adept Firesong, we can't hold her."

He frowned. "Is she slipping so fast?"

"Something is draining her and we can't stop it. Even her Companion is at a loss." He led the way into the room where the girl lay, and Firesong froze, his eyes widening. He'd never seen such a sickly child. She was small, even for her estimated age of thirteen or so. Her skin was pale, tugged over her frame to show every bone. Her breath rattled as she struggled for each one. A dark red stain lay under her. He focused on that immediately. "Do we know the source of the blood?"

The Healer nodded. "Miscarriage. We guessed her body rejected the child."

Firesong looked up sharply. "Miscarriage?! This girl is little more a child herself!" He felt at her abdomen gently, frowning in concentration. "It ripped at her womb…."

Again the Healer nodded. "But it's not Healing. We can't get it to—"

"Hush." Firesong invoked his Sight, searching deeper. "There's a mage spell here."

Now Darkwind was next to him, trying to look as well. What he saw made him swear.

Firesong shook his head. "We have to reverse it, Darkwind, or her lifeblood will continue to flow."

The Healer looked between them. "An explanation please?!"

It was Darkwind who answered. "The girl was placed under a spell. I've heard of it done, but usually when they are released from duty, their owner removes the spell or kills them…. This was a torture."

The Healer frowned. "I'm not sure I understand—"

"A mage spelled her body to prevent pregnancy. It is designed to force out the child and then the mage would Heal the damage by removing the spell himself momentarily."

His eyes widened. "Who would do such a thing?!"

Firesong answered that particular question. "Brothels, slave-holders, there are many that would consider an unpregnant woman the better of the sex. But this? The spell must have been forgotten and she'd been impregnated. The child was aborted, but the mage wasn't around to Heal the damage. As a result, she continues to bleed." He turned his concentration to the girl-child, frowning. It was an old, crude spell. It was going to be difficult to— Something gave way before he was ready, and the girl convulsed around a sudden coughing fit. Her breath gurgled, and he cursed. "Roll her over!" he commanded, helping turn the girl on her side as the blood streamed from her mouth.

Darkwind took over the spell, and they finally untangled it. He froze. "Firesong…. It's tied to her. She's the anchor."

Firesong cursed again. There was no way to release the spell except through her. "Goddess pray this doesn't kill her," he whispered, even as he tried his best to shield her. It was the only way. Darkwind waited as long as he could before he let go. The threads of the spell's energy buckled, snapping back through the girl.

Her eyes shot open and her back arched, her mouth open in a sudden scream of agony. Firesong winced, keeping her on the bed firmly. It seemed to force her panic to grow. She fought him, still screaming. This was more than the pain from the spell. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself into her mind. He almost recoiled. Everything in here was raw, blasted open. What had they done? He didn't even stop to ponder that. Working quickly, he put her under into trance and sat back, panting. "Great Goddess," he whispered, tears filling his eyes.

The Healers moved in then. They managed to stop the bleeding and Darkwind and Firesong slipped out, the latter clearly shaken. Elspeth waited for them. "Is she…."

Darkwind shook his head. "She's alive, if just…. Elspeth, that spell. It could have killed her." He gritted his teeth. "She lost a child, Elspeth. She was a slave for men and they put a spell to keep her from birthing. They didn't remove it and it nearly killed her. What's worse, they TIED the spell to her! The backlash has caused a lot of damage."

Firesong snorted darkly. "Add that to the exposure to the storm and the blood loss, I would not say she will stay alive for the rest of the night."

Elspeth swallowed hard. "Her Companion fears that she was too late."

Darkwind sighed softly. "We're doing all we can, but it may be that she was…" he said softly. "This girl is on the edge. One soft nudge is all it would take."

Elspeth's gaze became fierce. "Then we'd better not let that happen," she said firmly. There were so few Heralds, they couldn't afford to lose a single one.


End file.
